Pushing Upward (28 page)

I put on my clothes and advanced to the kitchen, where I proceeded to swab the floor until every speck of dirt had vanished, and I tackled the sink until it glistened. I soaked the dish drain and the Rubbermaid pad with bleach until all remnants of dried food disappeared.

While dusting the living-room chairs and windowsills, wiping away my guilt, I admitted to myself: I hadn't followed through on my end. Wiping down the window, making sure there were no streaks, I resolved that it was time to make good on my promise. Perspiring, I headed back toward the closet to get the vacuum cleaner. The telephone ring startled me.

Out of breath, I answered it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Sandra. It's Jerry. I hope it's not too early. I wanted to catch you before you made plans for the day.”

“Oh, I'm still here. Just going through my fan mail before the limo picks me up to get my hair done. How are you?”

“Great,” he said with a laugh. “Listen, how would you like to go to the marina today? There's this cute little Italian restaurant …”

“I would
love
to go. It's just that”—I lowered my voice—“I really need to tidy up the place. I haven't been around much.”

“I understand.” His voice dropped.

“Thanks for the invite, Jerry.”

“Listen, you take care. I'll give you a call soon.”

Sigh.
I placed the phone back on the table.
God, it would've been good to get out.

Emma walked into the living room, diffidently, as if she wanted to be invisible. As if she didn't want to be noticed or spoken to. So I went on with my chores and just observed, out of the corner of my eyes. She was wearing a dress I hadn't seen before, a blue cotton print that matched her eyes. She headed straight to the kitchen and made herself some breakfast. Wanting to avoid her, at least until I knew what (if anything) I was going to say, I kept my course in the opposite direction, back to the closet for the vacuum.

While Emma had her bagel and butter, I vacuumed. While she drank her coffee, I wrapped the vac cord. While she rinsed her dishes, I dusted the coffee table and wiped the dust from the plastic couch cover. Timing my approach, I waited until she'd finished the dishes, thinking furiously of something to say.

But she just headed for the coat closet to get her sweater. In the foyer she turned and opened the door. Then, without much expression, as she headed out the door, she said, “Have a nice day, dear.”

I sagged against the wall as Emma, and the tension, left the room.
Now what?
This was one of those moments I had experienced way too many times. Being stuck, without a clue what to do. Without thought, I lunged for the phone.
Jerry! Where did I put his card?
I ran to the bedroom, riffled through my purse, and called him back when I found it.

“Jerry? It's Sandra. Can we still go today?”

“Sure! I'll pick you up in an hour.”

“Cool.”

I gave him the address and rushed to get ready.

We spent the morning walking around Marina del Rey, strolling the boardwalk, looking at grand and expensive yachts, admiring the lavish lives of the rich and famous, the well-to-do's. I could have strolled forever among these boats with this gentle man, slipped the knot from any one of them, and off we could have gone … to the Caribbean or Bali. Boy, was I tempted.

“I think that's Bill Bixby's boat.” Jerry waved to the man standing on the deck—security, we supposed. Jerry called out to him, “Hi, isn't that Bill Bixby's boat?”

We saw the security man frown, trying to think this through. He finally answered, “I'm not supposed to say.”

Jerry roared, and I joined him. As we quieted, he stared, reading me like a page. “Is everything okay with you?”

“Can we talk about something else?” I begged. He was my escape, the diversion I needed yet again—from Emma, from guilt, from my mix of feelings about Allen.

Wanting to lighten my mood, he tried to amuse me: “An Irishman, a midget, a priest, an Italian, and a horse walk into a bar. Bartender says, ‘What is this, some kind of joke?'”

I groaned. We both escaped by telling each other the worst jokes we knew. We even sang—the most awful songs. It was the freedom I needed. And then, in the spirit of our joy, he put his arm around my waist as we walked along. He held me close, hip to hip. He paused, and I felt myself become afraid because I knew he was going to kiss me.

“I'm starving.” I blocked the momentum. “Instead of Italian, let's get some eggs.”

We strolled toward the nearest restaurant, and I listened to him express his enthusiasm when he spoke about breaking into TV and how excited he was that his script was picked up for a Movie of the Week. We'd covered all the arts before we'd finished our omelets. And as we reached for our jackets, he asked about Allen.

“How is he doing? I heard a rumor.”

My arm stopped in midreach, and my breath caught. “Oh, what rumor is that?” I asked innocently.

“He's being considered for a blockbuster film. This could really boost his directing career.” He was telling the truth.

The air in my lungs was released. “Well, he's a great director. I wouldn't be surprised.”

Was Jerry testing me, and my reaction? He wasn't the type to play games. So I let it go, and enjoyed the ride home: the breeze, the scenery passing by, and the ease of the afternoon that continued to flow through my heart.

Before saying good-bye to the man who somehow always brought me back to my center and made me feel safe in my skin, I asked, just to be sure: “You'll be at opening night, won't you?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Emma was sitting in
her
chair reading the
New York Times
when I returned. I went over and sat down in
my
chair. The chair I had always sat in, ever since I'd moved in, the chair that sat to the other side of the tiny round table that held Emma's lamp, her bagel and tea—the table that now separated our lives. We sat in our little worlds, only inches apart, but tonight, it felt more like galaxies.

“Did you have a nice time with Jackson?” I asked.

“Yes, we had a lovely day.” That was it. That was all she said.

Emma put down the paper and removed her bifocals, as if she wanted to tell me something, but changed her mind. Maybe it was all in my mind, but one thing was for sure different now. Whenever we'd talked in the past, she would completely face me, give me her undivided attention. This evening she didn't turn my way a smidgen. She simply stared straight ahead, as if I wasn't there.

I got up and walked into the kitchen, just to stretch the time out, and poured a glass of lemonade. It wasn't until she'd picked up the newspaper again that I walked back into the living room, sat down, and blurted out the words that I'd been holding back for so long.

“Look, Emma, I know you've been spending a lot of time by yourself. And I feel awful about it. I just don't know what to do … other than quit the play.”

She took a lifetime to answer. “I have plenty of people to keep me busy.”

“It's not just weekdays that we're rehearsing. It's weekends, too.”

She just listened.

“I know I haven't been cleaning or cooking very much.”

“You have a play to work on, Sandra. You should focus on that.”

“You have no idea, Emma. I have two parts to learn. I have to memorize the lines, the pacing, the blocking—every move. My emotions are all over the place because … I also have a major crush on the director, which I have been wanting to tell you about, and I …”

Emma shook her head ever so gently, in what looked like disappointment, and picked up the paper again.

My head was aching; I started massaging my temples. I wanted to yell, but instead asked her calmly, “Please, Emma … tell me why you're acting so strange and distant? Did I do something, or not do something, that upset you?”

Emma's fingers nervously clutched the arms of her high-back; her arms shook as she lifted her body from the chair until her feet were solidly planted on the gold carpet. She stood upright and placed one foot in front of the other as she headed toward her room. She stopped midroute and turned, again as if she wanted to say something to me, but couldn't. She turned again. “It's all right, Sandra. I just need to be alone for a while.” And then she entered her room, and closed the door.

I sat there shivering, confused. I grabbed my purse. I couldn't breathe. I took the elevator to the garage and got into the Fiat. I turned the key so hard in the ignition that the car made a grinding noise. Pressing down on the accelerator, I nearly backed into the stucco garage wall. I yanked the car into drive, turned the tight corner around the poles, and peeled up the ramp. I left a lot of black rubber on the cement. A couple of old ladies watched with their eyes wide open in amazement.

I knew where I wanted to go: to the top of Mulholland Drive, the highest point in L.A., with one of the best views of the city. And I wanted to get there fast. I'd go there when I needed to see the world from a loftier perspective—when I couldn't put all the pieces of my life together in my brain, or when I thought about jumping off someplace tall.

I pressed the pedal to the floor and went through a red light, whizzed past broken-down shacks and Spanish estates, watching the dust shoot up in my rearview as I passed. My wheels spun, skidded corners, and jumped curbs. I kept climbing faster, running stop sign after stop sign. Cutting across the middle line, I took a sharp left … and,
Oh shit,
almost hit an oncoming BMW. A hundred yards up the hill my rearview registered the man still sitting in his car shaking, wondering what had nearly hit him.

I wasn't far now from the top of the mountain, only a few hundred feet away. I ran another stop sign, as a mother and daughter were crossing the street. The young girl was dancing, twirling in circles, and laughing. The mother looked up in alarm. She must have heard me coming. I slammed on the brakes as hard as I could. Tires squealing, I swerved sideways, then sat there in a cloud of burning rubber. I'd come
that
close to hitting them.

I looked over. They were fine.

And
that
was when I pulled over and turned off the engine. Ashamed, embarrassed, I pressed my head against the steering wheel. My hands dropped their grip on the wheel, and my head fell back against the headrest.

I rolled down the window to take in some fresh air. It wasn't enough. I opened the door, climbed out of the Fiat, and walked across the road toward a broad-trunked coffee-colored eucalyptus tree.

I sat down on its roots. My spine relaxed against the tree's firm presence. I looked up at the ribboned leaves above me, stirring softly in a breeze too light to feel. I wished they were closer so I could wrap them around my body and feel them enfolding me. I closed my eyes and imagined the bark breathing life into my back, the tree supporting me with its strength, its age. With every breath, the tree responded. I could feel it exhale when I inhaled, inhale when I exhaled. I allowed my entire being to surrender into the tree's embrace.

As we kept breathing in unison, the tree and I, I reviewed the last few months of my life, to look more closely at what I had done and not done to upset Emma. As I sat there going over every single action and reaction since I'd been there, it came to me that although I had made mistakes with Emma, maybe this thing going on with Emma had more to do with
her
than it had to do with me.